


Professorial

by commodorecliche



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bossy Aziraphale, But Aziraphale more so, Deep Throating, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Hair-pulling, Human AU, Inspired by Art, M/M, Masturbation, Modern AU, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise, Rough Oral Sex, Secret Relationship, Sex in the office, Shameless Smut, Smut, Well they're both kinda bossy tbh, basically i saw art of Aziraphale and Crowley in turtlenecks and was like Yo Time To Write Smut, it's not super rough, just a little rough, sorta - Freeform, turtlenecks, university professors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 16:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: Aziraphale wears a turtleneck; Crowley isveryexcited about it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 541
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Good Omens Human AUs, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Professorial

**Author's Note:**

> nandskarth drew **[this awesome art](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche/status/1185568095127121920?s=20)** of Aziraphale and Crowley in some sleek as hell turtlenecks, and naturally i wrote 5500 words of turtleneck porn because of it. enjoy.
> 
> (no betas; we publish our unpolished fics like men)

**::**

Professor Anthony J. Crowley (that’s _ Dr. Crowley _ , to you) is, undoubtedly, the _ hottest _ thing to grace the University College London’s campus since sliced bread made its grand debut in the 1920’s. 

At least, that’s what the campus freshman will tell you. 

He’s a lithe, young thing, just shy of 34, and a little hot in the heels after finishing his own post-doctoral studies in astrophysics at the Imperial College just a few years prior. His fire-red hair rests casually (but not _ too _ casually) atop his angular face with a jaw you could cut yourself on. He likes to wear his sunglasses indoors, and is a _ huge _fan of tight, black pants. In fact, anything sleek, black, and rather form-fitting will do. Black turtlenecks are a particular favorite of his. 

His introductory physics and astronomy courses are always, _ always _packed to gills, and not simply because the subjects are interesting (which they are). 

He’s the sort of professor that lewd songs in the 1980’s were written about. What’s worse is that he _ knows _it. 

On the opposite end of the spectrum of (though not _ contrary to _) Dr. Crowley is Dr. Fell. 

Professor Aziraphale Fell (who never minds if someone calls him Mister instead of Doctor, despite having not one, but two PhDs (the first in English Literature, the second in Classical Theology)) is a softer sort of man. 

He’s a bit new to the faculty, much like Crowley, and is about the same age as him. But where Crowley is hardened lines and saucy attitudes, Aziraphale is gently curving slopes and soft-spoken words. He is a contoured sort of thing: his edges not edges at all, but rounded instead, kind in their curves. Ask any of the other faculty and they’ll tell you: Dr. Fell is an old soul imposed upon a young face. Despite his minimal years and the innocence of his visage, he has the sort of wisened gentleness of a professor who’s been around for decades. The sort of mentor that has offered sage advice to _ several _ generations of students. Aziraphale hasn't done that - but listening to him, one could _ believe _ that he has. And it’s never a surprise that hoards of students seem to clamor for spots in his courses.

All in all, the presence of Dr. Crowley and Dr. Fell on campus - as _ separate _ entities- is not particularly surprising to anyone. Not the students, not the other faculty members, not even the Dean of Students, Gabriel. Every university has its… ‘ _ quirky’ _ staff members, after all. (Is a college _ really _ a college without at least a _ few _weird professors?) 

What _ is _ rather perplexing, however, to almost everyone, is the fact that Dr. Crowley and Dr. Fell rather seem to… _ like each other. _ They seem to actually _ enjoy _each other's polarizing company. It’s quite a picture, really: two people who stand so starkly in contrast to each other that they might as well be antipodes, wanting to hang around each other. Hell, they actively seek each other out more often than not. 

Outside of class times and office hours, the pair are rarely seen apart. They lunch together, and have meetings together in the library, and even attend university functions together. One could only assume (as many do) that their _ meetings _extend beyond the university walls as well, though one could hardly guess as to why. 

Opposites attract and other such cliches, one supposes. 

If you asked a few students, they might tell you they are _ sure _ that Dr. Crowley and Dr. Fell are secretly long term friends, or that they have, at least, known each other, as acquaintances, for many, many years. If you asked some of the more _ gossip-prone _ students, they might tell you that _ they’re _ sure Dr. Crowley and Dr. Fell are having some sort of illicit affair - perhaps there are even jilted lovers on either side of the equation, as well. If you asked the faculty, _ they _might tell you that they certainly don’t want to poke their noses into the personal business of their colleagues. (The reality of this, however, is quite the opposite; they’re just as prone to circling the rumor mills as they students are, but they’d never admit it.)

The students - both the normal talkers and the gossipy talkers - are somewhat right in their own ways. Dr. Crowley and Dr. Fell _ are _ long term friends. They _ have _ known each other for many, many years. And while Aziraphale wouldn’t describe their relationship as anything ilicit, or sordid (and while Crowley _ would _ describe it as such), they are _ certainly _ more involved with each other than Just Friends. There are _ not _, however, any sort of jilted lovers on either side. They’re practically married (a formality they'll get around to eventually), but they’d never tell anyone that.

It’s more fun, Crowley tells Aziraphale often, to let people guess and to make up their own stories. Which they frequently do. 

Because, at the end of the day, no one on campus seems to be able to get a handle on the precise nature of Dr. Crowley and Dr. Fell’s relationship. 

Something that is very obvious to everyone, however, is that, no matter their antonymous personalities, Dr. Crowley and Dr. Fell very much seem to enjoy each other’s company. 

And that’s rather sweet, when you think about it. 

**::**

It’s one o’clock in the afternoon and Aziraphale is preparing for office hours. His classes have all finished for the day, but his scheduled office hours are set to begin within the next hour. He expects that today will be a quiet day for him - he has no students scheduled to come by, but that doesn’t mean none will show up unannounced. He always makes sure to leave his office door ajar, even if it’s before office hours, in case any students feel they need to pop in for a quick (or long) chat. 

(Crowley’s office door, one should also note, is always closed. And locked, if he doesn’t have office hours. When he does have office hours - _ precisely _ between 10 AM and 12 PM - he keeps the door shut. Anyone who wants to talk will have to have the gall of opening his office door for themselves. And seeking guidance before 10 AM or after 12 PM is always, as Crowley likes to so bluntly put it, _ shit out of luck _. It’s a wonder, Aziraphale thinks, that any students bother coming to Crowley’s office at all. And yet they do - it’s the strangest thing.)

It’s fifteen past one o’clock when the hinges of Aziraphale’s office door squeak, and figure slinks into the office. 

Aziraphale has been posted up at his computer, attempting to type out the final few paragraphs of a paper he’s contributing to (for the Global Journal of Classic Theology, not that anyone is asking). He hasn’t made it far, though. This aspect of scholarly work, while he appreciates the insight and opportunity it provides, is exceedingly tedious. Academia is only fun once your publication has been published - actually _ writing _it is, by all accounts, an absolute bore. Which is why, at fifteen past the hour, Aziraphale finds himself lighting up at the sight of Crowley slithering in through his office door. 

Aziraphale beams at his companion, leaning away from his computer and slipping his glasses off his face. He drops them onto his desk and stretches out, extending his arms far above his head and reclining in his chair. The hem of his grey turtleneck hikes up a little bit as he does so, a brief flash of stomach showing as it does. Aziraphale isn’t proud to admit it, but he _ does _take a moment to savor the salacious look Crowley gives him at the sight. With a sigh, Aziraphale drops his arms and fixes his shirt, just as Crowley leans back against the door, shutting it with a firm click. 

“Hello, Darling,” Aziraphale grins. 

“Angel,” Crowley says. 

“You just going to leave that closed?” Aziraphale asks, gesturing towards his office door. 

Crowley glances back over his shoulder and shrugs. 

“Was certainly considering it.” 

With a deft hand, Crowley reaches behind him and flicks the lock on the door. Aziraphale smirks and tilts back in his chair. 

“_ You _are up to no good.” 

“Hmph, you still pretending you’re up to good?” 

Aziraphale shrugs.

“Well, I was,” Aziraphale croaks, cocking his head towards his computer screen, “till you showed up.” 

His eyes drag up and down Crowley’s lithe figure, watching his friend as he reclines almost lewdly against Aziraphale’s door. Crowley is always like that though - whether he means to be or not. He cannot help but sprawl and slink, he cannot help but relax his body in ways that invite the hungry, carnal eye. Shoulders relaxed, hips jutted forward ever so slightly, head tilted back, hair styled just messy enough to look natural. He’s a sight for Aziraphale’s sore eyes. 

He’s wearing one of his sleek, tar-black turtlenecks today: certainly one of Aziraphale’s favorites. But despite its hold around his neck, Aziraphale can still see a glimmer of skin exposed of his throat between the fabric and Crowley’s jaw. The flesh is positively tantalizing, and it takes a concerted effort for Aziraphale not to lick his lips as he takes him in. 

It’s almost enough to make him forget that they are, more or less, wearing matching outfits today. 

“Almost sounds like you’re complaining, angel.” 

Crowley pushes himself off the door in one fluid motion and saunters towards the desk. 

“Wouldn’t _ dream _of it, my dear.” 

Crowley clears his throat and takes a step around Aziraphale’s desk. 

“Awfully bright in here, isn’t it?” He asks with a mischievous grin, “Can you even see your poor, little computer screen with all this sunlight?” 

Aziraphale clicks his tongue and shakes his head ‘no’. Without another word, Crowley slips the blinds closed. The room is dim without the sunlight’s fervent rays barreling in or the false brightness of the overhead lights. (Aziraphale has always been staunchly against fluorescent lighting.) With the blinds shut now, there is but a dull, soft light that creeps between their cracks, leaving the room bathed in a muted glow. 

“You been going through my closet, angel?” Crowley drawls, voice just barely a whisper as he sits on the edge of Aziraphale’s desk. He lifts one hand and drags his fingers across the grey collar of Aziraphale’s sweater, “This turtleneck is _ quite _flattering on you.” 

“I’ll have you know I have owned this sweater for years.” 

Crowley all but pouts and scooches his butt along the desk, moving just a fraction closer to Aziraphale’s chair, slipping a little bit further into Aziraphale’s space. Their knees don’t touch, not yet, at least, but they could if they wanted to. Crowley rather wants them to, and Aziraphale certainly wouldn’t deny his desire for the contact, either. 

“Why’ve you never worn it around me then?” 

Aziraphale bobbles his head a little, saucy and playful as he side-eyes his companion. 

“It’s not a preferred sweater, bit smaller than I like, but the rest of my outfits are in the wash.” 

Crowley hums, his fingers still dragging across the fabric of Aziraphale’s high collar. With each swoop, the tips of his fingers threaten to creep under the edge, ghosting over the place where the fabric meets flesh. 

“People will talk, you know, if they see us in matching outfits. Chins will wag something _ vicious _.” 

Aziraphale shrugs, absently leaning into Crowley’s touch a fraction more. 

“People do little else, love. Chins have wagged about us since the moment we set foot on this campus.” 

Crowley doesn’t seem to consider his words, unconcerned with the details of their conversation. His attention is pointedly more focused on Aziraphale’s throat. His fingers have begun to tug the neck of the turtleneck down, nails raking ever-so-faintly across the heated flesh of his throat that is hidden beneath the fabric. 

“So much skin tucked away under here, so easy to bite… so easy to _ hide… _ ” Crowley muses. 

Aziraphale can all but _ see _ how thoroughly Crowley is imagining biting and sucking at his neck. He is imagining leaving _ marks _ \- he is imagining the thrill he might get knowing that Aziraphale has hidden his love bites away beneath a tight collar. Even beneath his button-up collars and bow-ties, the remnants of Crowley’s affections can be (and often _ are _) well-hidden. Secretive. They are marks that Aziraphale keeps for himself, that he keeps just for the two of them. 

But the turtleneck? It seems to be _ doing _ things to Crowley, judging by the glazed look in his eyes. Aziraphale finds that rather rich, too, considering Crowley is dressed just as lewdly, if not _ more _ so, given the addition of his too-tight pants, and the bulge at their front. Aziraphale at least has the _ decency _to wear a proper pair of dress trousers to work. 

Drawing his lower lip between his teeth, Aziraphale sprawls his hand across the tense mass of Crowley’s thigh. It is tight beneath his fingers, poised with urgent tension, and Aziraphale _ loves _the way it all but trembles beneath his touch. 

“You’re one to talk,” Aziraphale whispers. He wishes there were more conviction in his tone, but he finds himself becoming just as distracted by Crowley’s warm thigh as Crowley seems to be with his neck. 

His voice is a wee bit quivery and he shudders beneath the tantalizing whisper of Crowley’s hand on his neck. He curls his fingers slightly, letting his fingernails drag and catch on the fabric of Crowley’s pants. Unsteady, they begin to creep upwards, along the length of Crowley’s thigh, up towards the base of Crowley’s sweater, opting to settle with a firm grip around the sharp angle of Crowley’s hip. 

Crowley smirks and lifts his free hand to his own neck. His index finger curls beneath the fabric of his turtleneck’s collar and pulls it away from his neck casually. 

“What? This old thing?” 

Crowley’s tone is playful - _ taunting _ and _ powerful _\- as though he were daring Aziraphale to make another move. But all Aziraphale can do is stare at the exposed portion of his throat with hunger. Crowley smirks and lets out a breathy chuckle; he releases his collar from the hook of his finger, letting it pop back into its proper place around his throat. Aziraphale can only gulp, forcing down the thick, heavy lump that has developed in his throat. 

God, almighty. Years, literal _years_, of having Crowley every which way he could imagine, and Aziraphale _still _finds himself weak at the knees and churning in his gut at the mere sight of his lover’s exposed flesh. Aziraphale lets out an undignified whimper and tilts forward into Crowley. He presses his and Crowley’s temples together, an uneasy breath ghosting past Crowley’s ear as Aziraphale ruts his hips forward. 

“We shouldn’t do this here,” Aziraphale sighs, resigned, but still so very needy in his tone. 

“Don’t exactly see _ you _pumping the brakes, angel,” Crowley taunts right back. 

Aziraphale _ intends _ to retort - to offer some snarky little reply that might put a cork in Crowley’s lewd mouth - but the only sound he seems to be able to make is an unsteady mewl. And Crowley, fucking _ Crowley _, smirks at it, the breadth of his grin obvious against Aziraphale’s cheek still pressed against his own. 

Cheeky bastard. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Crowley lets out a brisk huff and puts one hand on the back of Aziraphale’s neck to pull their faces apart. He tugs a bit at the short hairs at Aziraphale’s nape when he yanks him away from his own throat, before planting his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s jaw. He draws him forward then and forces their lips together in an urgent, desperate kiss. Aziraphale grunts - surprised, but not complaining - at the suddenness of Crowley’s motions. 

They keep their mouths pressed together, firm and closed-lipped, before Crowley finally uses his hands to guide Aziraphale’s head to the side slightly so they can deepen the kiss. Crowley’s lips open, his tongue pressing firm against the line of Aziraphale’s mouth, begging entry. Aziraphale gives in without a second thought, mouth opening with gusto, welcoming, warm, _ ready _ for Crowley’s tongue to probe and search. 

At the first brush of their tongues together, Aziraphale feels his entire body shiver. His arms fumble at Crowley, grappling first at his waist, then around his back, up to his shoulder blades, then dragging along the dramatic curvature of his spine. His fingers press and dig into each and every vertebra, desperate to memorize their shapes, as if he didn’t know them by heart already. He could count the curves and angles of these bones in his sleep; were he blind, he could recognize Crowley by the touch of him alone.

As so often seems to happen whenever he’s with Crowley, Aziraphale is lost for a moment. He is surrounded, overcome, enraptured by Crowley’s taste, the feel of him, the scent of him. And he is _ more _ than ready to lose himself further until the sound of voices passing by his closed office door jar him out of the moment. He yanks his mouth away from Crowley’s, earning an annoyed grumble from the other man as he does so. Crowley, for what it’s worth, doesn’t miss a beat. Unable to kiss Aziraphale’s mouth, he opts instead to trail his mouth along Aziraphale’s cheek, then jaw, down to the line of his throat, and then finally, _ finally _nudging just below Aziraphale’s collar to kiss the skin hidden there. 

Aziraphale almost chokes at the first nip of Crowley’s teeth against his heated flesh. 

“A-ah, darling, as… as much as I’m enjoying this, can’t it wait till later? We - oh _ gracious _,” Aziraphale stutters as Crowley growls against his neck, “-we could go to my place after work? Grab d-dinner?”

Crowley huffs - indignant, petulant. 

“No, _ now _ . I haven’t properly kissed you since yesterday. Haven’t _ had _you for two whole days,” Crowley punctuates his words with a pointed forward roll of his hips into Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale groans at the contact, revelling in the way that Crowley continues, desperate in his motions. He lifts one hand and finally tugs the fabric of Aziraphale’s collar down completely to expose as much flesh as he can. He begins to suck at his throat in earnest, drawing blood to the surface with a thrill of exquisite pain. Aziraphale whimpers, knees going a bit wobbly beneath him as Crowley marks him up. 

Aziraphale is trying - so _ very _ hard, too - to hold himself back. To not let himself relish in this contact and get carried away. He’s pointedly resisting yanking Crowley’s own dark collar down so that he might be able to lick and mouth and nip at the sinew of Crowley’s throat. He knows how fair and pale the skin under that collar is, how _ sensitive _and tender and ripe for the taking it is. It always flushes so beautifully for Aziraphale, hot and red beneath his mouth, blushing at his touch. 

Aziraphale has seen that color grace Crowley’s skin so many times throughout their years together. He has brought the heat of Crowley’s core up to the surface so often that he knows the colors and patterns (red, splotchy) of his blush by heart. Tucked away in the privacy of Crowley’s dark, satin sheets, Aziraphale has left more kisses and bites across that alabaster flesh than he can count. And right now? Right now, he is absolutely _ aching _ to see that color, to taste that heat again. He’s barely restraining himself, and yet _ somehow _, by sheer force of will, he manages to hiss out a logical protestation. 

“Darling, I have o-office hours in 35 minutes…” 

“Mmm,” Crowley hums, already unwilling to accept that as an excuse, “Reschedule them. You’re feeling _ terribly _under the weather, aren’t you, Aziraphale?”

“I-” Aziraphale starts, all but ready to protest. But he stops short and sighs his resignation, “Oh, _ blast _ it all,” He pauses, “ _ You _are a wicked thing, you know that?” 

Crowley chuckles - deep and throaty and oh so proud of himself. His voice is wet and warm against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, and Aziraphale tries his best to suppress that shiver that courses through him. 

“You _ love _ it,” Crowley whispers. Aziraphale doesn’t agree with him, but he doesn’t _ disagree _either. 

Try as he might, he can’t seem to wipe the devious grin from his lips as he pushes Crowley away from him with a desperate shove. He jots down a brief note about being ill and moving his office hours to another day, and cracks the door open to pin it up. He’s careful not to open the door too widely, lest Crowley’s figure be visible to anyone in the hall. As soon as his note is up, Aziraphale shuts the door with a swift, solid click and locks it. 

Turning back around, he moves to the windows and double checks that the blinds are all securely drawn, blocking his and Crowley’s private moment from the outside world. Once he’s sure that no prying eyes will be able to slip through the cracks, Aziraphale turns his attention back to his companion.

Crowley has propped himself up once again against the desk, his ass just barely braced on the edge. His arms are crossed in front of him, almost impatient, as though Aziraphale were holding them up. He’s such a _ brat _sometimes. 

“Oh, good _ lord _,” Aziraphale admonishes as he looks Crowley up and down. Crowley is a dramatic man - always has been - all pointed posture and exaggerated stature. But even Aziraphale can’t deny how well the absolute sauciness of his behavior suits him. 

With a low sigh, Aziraphale steps in close to Crowley, watching as Crowley’s legs automatically spread as he draws nearer. Aziraphale slots himself into the space as though it were his home, cozying himself up to Crowley in the most intimate of ways. He tilts his head a little and scans his eyes over Crowley’s face. There is hunger in his sharp features, so impatient and restless as he waits for Aziraphale. Crowley tightens his thighs around Aziraphale’s soft hips and angles his pelvis forward and upward, desperately trying to thrust against Aziraphale’s groin.

Aziraphale groans at the contact, so warm and flush and earnest. _ Full _of need. Crowley was right - they need this. Perhaps they could have waited until the evening, like Aziraphale had suggested, but if Aziraphale is honest, he can’t deny that he’s been aching for Crowley’s touch just as thoroughly. 

Crowley leans forward a bit from his perch on the desk and urges their chest close and firm together. He jolts his head forward to try to claim Aziraphale’s lips, but Aziraphale won’t let him. He ducks his head back at the last moment, leaving Crowley empty and wanting, panicked in Aziraphale’s absence. Instead of kissing him, Aziraphale drags his hand up Crowley’s arm. He lets it travel along the length of his forearm, his bicep, his shoulder, then up along his throat until his palm finds its place at Crowley’s nape. He threads his fingers up into the thick, coarse hair he finds at the back of Crowley’s head. Curling his fingers into a tight fist, Aziraphale grips Crowley by the hair and yanks his head back with a grunt. 

Crowley whimpers and sighs, a visible shudder coursing through his body at the sudden roughness. 

“You’re incorrigible,” Aziraphale tells him hoarsely, fingers loosening and then tightening one again in Crowley’s tousled hair. 

The initial tug might have elicited a whimper, but the second yank on Crowley’s hair earns Aziraphale an all-out groan. It simpers past Crowley’s teeth from somewhere deep and cloying in Crowley’s chest. 

“A-ah, you’re the one b-bossing me about right now, angel.” 

“Thought this was what you wanted,” Aziraphale says, coy as he loosens his grip and massages at Crowley’s scalp, only to tighten his fingers in the next moment and pull again. 

Crowley hisses and nods, but his motion is limited by Aziraphale’s commanding grip. 

“Ahh, fuck, _yes_ it is.” 

“We must be quick,” Aziraphale tells him. 

“Yes.” 

Aziraphale leans in close and ducks his head down to Crowley’s throat. With his free hand he pulls Crowley’s collar down and uses the hand in his hair to tug his head back more. The line of his throat is taut and wiry, tense and waiting for something, _ anything _. Crowley’s pulse is a fervid thrum, blood raging beneath his paper-white skin. Aziraphale smirks and tilts in close, dragging his tongue along whatever exposed skin he can find, feels Crowley’s flesh pulsating under his mouth. He pauses, then his teeth deep into the taut flesh; it earns him a rough, hoarse gasp. 

“Can you be quick, dear boy?” He murmurs against Crowley’s throat. 

Wordless, Crowley nods. 

“Then get to it.” 

Crowley growls at the instruction, and as soon as Aziraphale has loosened his grip on his hair, Crowley is up off the desk. He urges Aziraphale backwards and ushers him to sit down in his office chair. The moment Aziraphale is seated, Crowley drops to his knees and slots himself into the crevice between Aziraphale’s thighs. His fingers creep up Aziraphale’s quadriceps and fumble with his pants. Aziraphale shudders, happy for the moment to allow Crowley to do as he pleases. 

He lets his hand come to rest on the back of Crowley’s head. His fingers thread into his red locks with surety, fondling and gripping the hair with confidence as Crowley gets his pants undone and tugs the front of his underwear down. His cock springs free with urgency and, obedient as ever, Crowley wastes no time taking Aziraphale’s full length into his mouth. 

“Oh darling,” Aziraphale purrs, dropping his head back against the chair. 

Crowley smirks around his cock and pushes his head down further, swallowing Aziraphale deep into his throat. 

“A-ah, _ yes _, that’s a good boy.”

Aziraphale pets his hair - soft, warm, reassuring as Crowley lathes his wet mouth up and down Aziraphale’s cock. Crowley’s hands stroke his thighs with reverence, fingers massaging the muscles with soothing pressure as he takes Aziraphale’s pleasure into him. As much as he would like to hold himself back, Aziraphale can’t help but buck his hips upward, thrusting steadily into the waiting warmth of Crowley’s mouth. 

Crowley, for all his bluster, doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he rather seems to enjoy the sudden change of pace. As Aziraphale’s fingers tighten their grip on his hair, one of his hands leaves Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale can’t know for sure, but he would hazard a guess that Crowley is fumbling his own trousers open and shoving his hand into them to stroke himself. 

Always so _ impatient _, never can hold himself back. 

Aziraphale groans at the thought of it. The mental image of Crowley pleasuring himself as he sucks Aziraphale off is tantalizing enough that Aziraphale actually lifts his head and opens his bleary eyes to stare down at Crowley. 

He’s a sight to behold, really. So luxurious in his dark turtle neck, so divine on his knees between Aziraphale’s legs, so_ lewd _as he eagerly takes Aziraphale’s cock like he’ll never get enough of it. Aziraphale can see Crowley’s right arm moving, and knows that he’s definitely begun to stroke himself off, as well. 

“Are you touching yourself?” Aziraphale gasps, breathless, even though he already knows the answer. 

Crowley doesn’t answer him, but going by the way his pace quickens along Aziraphale’s cock, Aziraphale can only assume that’s a yes. A muffled, but wanton moan vibrates along Aziraphale’s length as Crowley moves. 

“Yes, good boy, keep touching yourself.” 

Aziraphale keeps his eyes transfixed on Crowley. He pets his tousled hair with tenderness, smoothing it down, coaxing and encouraging him along, only to find himself growing eager the next moment and once again tightening his fingers in it. With another firm tug, Aziraphale guides Crowley’s head, urging him to take him deeper, faster, and eliciting a desperate moan from Crowley as he does so. It’s subtle, but judging by the tightness of Crowley’s whimpers, Aziraphale is sure he must be getting close to his own orgasm. It’s a small tell, but one that Aziraphale has learned to pinpoint throughout their years together. At the thought of Crowley coming for him while on his knees and servicing him, Aziraphale feels heat begin to pool in his groin. 

“_ God _,” Aziraphale hisses, hand continuing to guide Crowley’s head. Crowley doesn’t even hesitate, taking Aziraphale deeper and deeper with every thrust, moaning with abandon as he tugs at his own cock, “That’s it, dear. You’re doing so well for me, darling… Are y-you close?” 

“Mmhm,” Crowley affirms with a moan. His voice his muffled around his mouthful, but Aziraphale understands. 

Unable to hold himself back, Aziraphale thrusts his hips upward one last time, spilling deep into Crowley’s throat. Crowley sputters around him, desperate to swallow but a moan is caught in his mouth as his own orgasm follows suit. He yanks his head off Aziraphale’s cock and chokes out a gasp, body going limp and uneasy, held steady only by Aziraphale’s firm grip on his hair. 

In the next moment, Crowley comes back to himself. 

“Ah,” he huffs, supporting himself on Aziraphale’s legs, cheek pressed atop one of Aziraphale’s thighs, “_ Fuck _.” 

Aziraphale chuckles and lovingly pets his hair. 

“Mmm, yes. I must say, you’re a _ terrible _influence on me, darling.” 

Crowley scoffs and rubs his face into Aziraphale’s leg. 

“Oh, _ please _,” He retorts with a laugh. 

Crowley pushes himself up to stand and begins to straighten himself out. He wipes his face of any excess spit or come, straightens his collar, and re-buttons his pants. Once he’s put himself back together, he offers a hand to Aziraphale and pulls him up out of the chair. 

Aziraphale moves to tuck his cock away and button himself up, but Crowley swats at his hands. With care, Crowley re-situates Aziraphale’s underwear and pants, and buttons him back up, a fond smile on his face as he does. He moves to Aziraphale sweater and straightens it out around his hips. Aziraphale settles one hand on his cheek and tilts Crowley’s gaze upwards. 

“Thank you, love.” 

“S’no trouble, angel,” Crowley says. He clears his throat and drags his hands upwards. His fingers tug at the collar of Aziraphale’s turtleneck, “You should wear this more often. I like it.” 

“I thought you liked my usual clothes?” Aziraphale tries to hide the pout in his tone. 

“Oh, yeah, sure, they’re fine too. Really got that whole _ 18th Century Nobleman _ thing going for you, but this whole,” he tugs again at the hem of the sweater, “ _ Tight Sexy Turtleneck _ thing really suits you. It’s _ sleek _.” 

Crowley pauses and leans in close, pressing his and Aziraphale’s cheeks together so he can whisper in Azirphale’s ear. 

“Really turns me on, you know?” 

Aziraphale has to suppress a shudder at the sound of his voice. He reminds himself, rather sternly, that they literally _ just _finished a shag not five minutes prior. He feels like a young man again, desperate for every touch his lover might give him. 

He shrugs, trying to appear casual. 

“Well, perhaps I’ll mix it up a bit more for you…” 

Crowley smirks and presses a kiss against Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“We should really get out of here.” 

“I said that 15 minutes ago,” Aziraphale huffs, “But nooo, you had to get on your knees right then and there.” 

“Didn’t exactly hear you complaining, angel.” 

Aziraphale grins and pushes Crowley away, moving to grab up a few papers to grade and shoving them in his messenger bag. 

“Alright, you fiend, let’s get out of here.” 

He moves around Crowley so he can unlock and open his office door. He waits patiently in the open doorway as Crowley gathers his keys and his phone from off of Aziraphale’s desk and follows him out. But as they head down the hall, they’re stopped by Gabriel’s voice calling out from behind them. 

“Oh, Dr. Fell!” 

He and Crowley both pause and turn around. 

“Thought you had office hours right now,” Gabriel starts as he approaches, “Oh, and Dr. Crowley. Fancy seeing you in this neck of the woods, isn’t your office across campus?” 

“Well,” Aziraphale starts, but Crowley doesn’t let him finish. 

“Dr. Fell isn’t feeling very well today - had to cancel his office hours, even, the poor thing. I brought over some cold medicine for him. Thought it might help.” 

Aziraphale can feel a grin threatening the corners of his lips as Crowley speaks, but he staves it off. Gabriel furrows his brow, but appears satisfied enough. He shoots Aziraphale a curt nod. 

“Well,” Gabriel pauses, sparing another glance between the two of them, “best you get home then, sunshine,” He tells him. 

Aziraphale nods. By the tone of Gabriel’s voice, Aziraphale can tell that the Dean isn’t quite sure what to make of the situation, but he appears willing enough to not question it. And if he notices their apparent matching attire, Aziraphale thanks god he chooses not to mention it. 

“Oh, yes, sir, should be right as rain by tomorrow.” 

“Right…” 

Gabriel purses his lips into a tight line, nods, and without another word, cuts around them to continue down the hallway. 

Once he’s out of earshot, Crowley chuckles. 

“Well, that was uncomfortable.” 

“I should remind you that that little… _ tryst _ … was _ your _idea.” 

“Oh, yeah, of course. I suppose it was my _own_ hand that was yanking on my hair and bossing me about then, eh?” 

Aziraphale smiles and ushers Crowley down the hall with a firm hand on the small of his back. 

“Hush, you.” 

**::**

**Author's Note:**

> you can also come hang out and yell at me about turtleneck smut on [tumblr](https://commodorecliche.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/commodorecliche).


End file.
